Grudge Dance
Would you like to dance? Much could be said about Sideswipe's way with the ladies.. how it is at times completely misguided, nonexsistant, misdirected, or even just pathetic.. But generaly if he makes a date he tries to keep it.. unless he doesn't want to or has something better to do.. but hey, we're in luck! A radio drop had been sent out. It wasn't at all tasteful but it got the point across. Arachnae would find her dance partner squirrled away in the scrapyards, a good few clickas out of Decepticon or Autobot patrol circuits.. if only they were tired of trying to keep some sort of order going in the nearby Junkion trailer park. An invitation to a dance.. Not something the average or even odd Decepticon lady gets all that often. Singular invitation for a tango. Curiosity must be slaked. Call it a date, call it part of the perpetual motion war machine, call it what you will, but the line has been drawn, and the response is... quiet. Gliding in on wings of darkened night, refracted highlights streaking across armoring preened to mirror-gloss finish is the aforementioned Arachnae. The descending prime sun lends licks of flame and amber across that indigo gloss plating, while the crimson hues of one of the new moons elicits lengthened shadows spreading across the ground below, like creeping doom reaching for destinies call. It's a strange thing when your home world suddenly gets a sun again. The dead chill he used to associate with home is now gone. There is warmth now, comfort. A feeling of new beginings, the opertunity for a new start, a second begining. What better way to ring it all in then by attempting to settle a petty grudge with a knock down, drag out brawl?! Sideswipe waited for his appointed foe. He stood out easily enough in the picked over landscape, his brillient, cherry red coloring had never made him a candidate for subterfuge. He waits for her in a clearing among the rubbish, open ground with the occasional bit of debris strewn about to be picked up, stumbled over, or thrown upon.. It reminded him of the good old days.. In retrospect, those days weren't all that good. He waits with arms crossed over his chestplate,m optics wandering to and fro, flitting from one piece of junk to the other.. until the swift shadow of Arachnae draws his attention. Lifting a hand to shield his optics, Sideswipe casts his gaze skywards, his face quirked into a crooked smile. <<"Finaly showed up, huh? Was thinking you were turning chickon on me">> he radioed. The rushing shadows cast by the spread wings of the medic turned warrior reaches the very tips of the crimson warriors feet then halts. Those same wings beat slowly, back-winging with delicate motions, panels spanned to their fullest. It is strange, the suns, the light, the warmth when home was but a fragmented memory of places best left to shadows and dark. The brilliant light does Cybertron no favor, bringing out the surface flaws, the decay, the death from countless eons of war. Still, she hovers, casting emerald gaze downwards, an amused smirk or smile in place on the vulpine countenance. An inclination of her head as she begins the descent, shadow dwindling, withdrawing until feet touch on the sparse space cleared among the king of refuse piles. <<"And miss out on continuing our wonderful conversation? *velvet tone, silk over steel* I think not.">> Response radioed just as feet make contact, then finished with the velvet timbre of her voice rippling through the thin air, "If anyone should be uestioned on their cowardice or lack thereof, it should be you and your other half." Smile shades wicked, words delivered with a slight ras'd barb. Sideswipe always pegged flight to be the reason why the Decepticons had their gargantuan egos. Nothing said 'Better then you' like making a snazzy entrance. The crimson crusader watcher her down, optics gleaming in the shade cast by his hand, taunting smile still held fast upon his lips. "Cowardice?" he retorted, hand drifting from his brow, "You've got your circuits screwed lady!" he countered a hand slapping the comment from the air, "I'm the big, mean, red, machine. The one that's going to be running from this fight certainly ain't going to be me!" he replied, a fist crashing into a open palm, metal on metal ringing out through the silance of their solitary randevous. The fist grinds anxiously into his palm, smile turning into something wicked, excitement pumping hot through his servos, the lights of his eyes dancing with anticipation, "But hey, you and I both know what we came here for, don't we, Princess?" he continues, almost giddy, "So let's get to it!" He's on the move, feet eating up the distance between them, his jetpack bursting into life and hurrying him forward, a fist drawn back and loosed as soon as he thinks he can lay one on her. Sideswipe strikes you with Uncooth Introductions for 9 points of damage. you are now at 64 endurance and 0 injury level. Arachnae partially furls wings backwards, panels gliding along panels with the hiss of snakeskin over sand. Flight, a wonderful thing, often taken for granted by many, simply another tool in a well-built arsenal for others. Emerald optics glint with the dancing light from the setting sun, golden glimmers sparking here and there behind the visor shimmering with an oil-slick rainbow gleam. "Call it what you will..." Slow drawl of words, smile sliding into a calculating smirk, "Boy." Taunt delivered, the word that started this round of the dance emited with a clipped, singular bark of amusement. "Princess? hardly.." The utter stillness of a predator awaiting a strike, the motionlessness of an iced lake, the moment before reaction sets in, the peace, zen-like of anticipation shatters as the first move is made. Now it's that staccato flash of readings, system indicators, the thrum-hum of weapons going from standby to primed, the stop-motion stagger of war. Yes, the crimson dynamo makes first contact, fist landing a ringing blow against armoring, sliding across jaw, cracking that charming visor, eliciting a single step backwards from the blue Decepticon, rocked back by the impact. "Nice.." Drawled once more, the stop-motion flowing fluidly for but a brief moment before one wing snaps out, the other tucks and she spins, lashing out with the razor's edge of that flight member, the blue metal gleaming with sickly crimson hues as it moves in a flash. You strike Sideswipe with Wing-Blade. A triumphant "Ha!" rings out from Mama Lambor's Red Son, a joyeous release upon impact of fist upon jaw, the sweet sound of cracking materials tickling his audials. It's been too long, far too long. To say the attack was fool-hardy and overly forward is a understatement. Sideswipe can't recover, can't put up a defense in time, feet meeting the ground, heels finding purchase, hands reeling back to try and intercept a fist that never came. The wing surprises him it sweeps in sheering into his crimson breast plate, the shriek of metal upon metal, his boyishly crooked smile twisted by a wince, dentals clenching. He jerks away, feet skidding back across the terrain, dust kicked up in a withdraw. A glance down allows him a chance to review her wing's work, his badge cut through, fluids trickling from the gash. "Hmph." "Going to make you eat that word." he responds, moving back in, fists up like a seasoned boxer. Phantom punches are thrown to get her guessing, left fist dipping, right shifting. a feint as he comes in, foot hefting off the ground as he shifts his weight to the other, pivoting to the left as he draws it up and thrusts his heel towards her center. You evade Sideswipe's disreputable rebuttle attack. Ahh, the echoing sound of triumph prematurely uttered, the follow-up noise of metal against metal a far better punctuation point than any mere utterance. Emerald optics glimmer with gold behind the cracked visor, midspin being pushed up onto forehead. The smirk remains, an upturn of one side, lips thinned, a hair close to a sneer, but just shy of that level of arrogance. The violent eruption of movement continues, a whirlwind in indigo and azure rounding back to push forward to the fray. Physics states that a body in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by an external force. While the feinted punches elicit the twitch here, there, and back as expected, the sarcasm-filled femme simply closes the gap, twisting underneath a foot that would have halted her motion abruptly, save for the duck and subsequent spinning swish of a leg sweeping low. "Which word?" sarcasm rising, melodious laughter ringing like mourning bells pealing death and chaos, "Boy?" Laughter follows, again ringing. You strike Sideswipe with Object in motion, stays in motion. One leg cast high, the other cast low. Sideswipe comes out of it with a lost bet. She whirls and Sideswipe's kick snaps over her head, leg recoiling from the thrust at the knee, attempting to plant itself once more. She's too quick. Her leg sweeps in, catching his, knocking it soundly and ripping it out from under him. Sideswipe topples back, a ungraceful fall right onto his aft that elicits a pained 'Oof!' "Yeah." he answers, quick to recover from the embaressment of being put on his aft so soon. If it dampened his spirits it didn't show. Blue optics flash brightly as the red devil reaches his hands up and over his head, planting them as he brings his legs up, coiling them over his body and then with a snap he lunges upright, his feet lashing out at her chest with some force, "That one!" You evade Sideswipe's Lands on his feet attack. It's pure physics, poetry in motion or sheer, stupid, blind luck that has a former research medic tangoing with one of the Autobots heaviest hitters. Still.. "Yesterdays model, perhaps, boy?" Laughter in the tone, words soft and friendly, a lie if not in meaning but in promise of sunshine and flowers. It's an exacting maneuver, audible hissing of hydraulics, dynamos as the flat-spin-kick is converted, pivoted, twisted to send her heels over head, backflipping out and away, landing neatly poised as feet from her foe swish mere meters away. But it is executed with that pinpoint level of perfectionism that is laced with the edge of rote learning, subconscious level reaction on a timing level clocked to the nanoclick. The momentum appears lost, wings half spanned once more, panels quivering with the applied force of the sudden halt from this dance partner. But the stillness cannot remain, not in this moment, and it is once more broken by the flash of wings, feinted inwards leap, blade edge winking first left, then right. All to cover the extrusion of meter long blades from forearms that reveal themselves in a one-two snicker-snack slicing dervish. "Ahh, yes.. *that* one.." Sideswipe was begining to see some bitter irony in his offer of a dance, it all semed choreographed, like she could see his every step laid out on the floor and he was the mook that couldn't see hers. The snap up hadn't netted him the booting he wanted but he was back on his feet, that was good enough for now. "The hip kids call it classic, Princess." he retorts to her claims of his out-moded make. He was forcing himself to think now, could be a mistake but he didn't seem to be laying a finger on her when he was just reacting. He adopted less of a boxer's stance, one foot shifted forward, the other back, arms hefted up, left close to his shoulder, right held forward. She made him dance with the flits of her wings, shuffling steps to and fro, had him good. By the time he saw the sun gleaming along the edges of her newly produced blades it was too late. If Sideswipe were a Jabberwockie she would have had him dead to rights, luckily Mamma Lambor didn't raise no Jabberwokie. She carved a pained grunt out of him, blades cutting into the lighter armor just below his chest, sparks and fluids freed, trailing out behind the tips of her blades. He staggered back, face contorted in pain, a hand clapped over his middle to keep things in place, the other snapping down to a shifting thigh, a rifle thrust up into his waiting hand. In a flash he drew it from it's holster, the weapon's energy cells keening to life, his finger nestled over the trigger as he took split-second aim. "Heh." He flipped the gun into the air, a shallow toss that had it spinning 180 degrees, the barrel snapped up into a waiting hand, "You really know how to work a mech's nerves, y'know that, Sweetness?" he jeers as he lunges in once more, the improvised club swept through the air as he neared. He was havving too much fun to let her dance out of arm's length just yet. Sideswipe strikes you with Sudden change in plans for 4 points of damage. you are now at 66 endurance and 0 injury level. It's all the same, you get invited to a dance and your partner has two left feet. Wallflower-hood never looked so good. At least then you'd see the other interesting dances out there. The feints performed their tasks all too well, eliciting a sharp whiff-hiss of air drawn into intakes to cool over-powered systems pushed to the line and beyond. The smirk finally cracks into a devilishly wicked smile, optics whirling an odd amalgam of that emerald and now gold in their depths. It's like that second sip of a cold beer, just as bitter as the first, just as satisfying, just as thirst inducing. It's an honest expression, enjoyment, that thrill-seekers expectation of a sharp hill on the rollercoaster, preparation doesn't stop the up-ending sensation of adrenaline rushing through ones systems. And the experience is all that it's cut out to be. Blades bite in, drawing out as quickly as they came, wings snapping back as counter-balances for the abrupt movement, the jitter to the side in anticipation of reaction. "I should know your nerves all too well, pet. I did order you taken apart.. bit.. by bit." Again, all sunshine and puppies, laughter and flowers, lies promised in tone, delivered in meaning. The counterbalance shift of weight and center occurs that split click too late, the barrel of the gun coming home to rest briefly on then into a shoulder pauldron, cracking ceramic tiling away with the tinkling sound of shattered glass. The crack-whine of dynamos and generators redlining emits from the blue femme, a rising series of vibrato humming, a cacophony of promised dance music to add to the tango. "Let's change this tune, shall we?" Not giving up an inch when the pain strikes, simply arcing fingers into a claw, raking it and all 5 miniblades exposed out and towards. You strike Sideswipe with Claw. The Red Devil kept that hand tucked tightly against his middle, a fist jammed into the hole she carved into his belly, keeping his innerds in and hopefuly her outerds out. He was smiling again, simple pleasures for a simple man, a crooked grin plastered along his features as he held that makeshift club at the ready, the stout rifle seeming indifferent to it's unintended use, little more then a ding on it's outter casing acting as a testament to it's abuse. "That so, Sweetness?" he asks as he circles, rifle held at the ready for another clubbing, "Didn't even know you cared." Then she's on the move, quick, quicker then he can brandish the club, claws snapping up and carving across the silver of his face, deep rents torn into the silver metal, tearing a permanent smirk into his featuyres, arcing up aling his jaw and across his cheek, skeletal workings of the smiling devil laid bare even as that hands comes away from his middle, attempting to take advantage of the proximit. "C'mere, beautiful!" he grates through a pained hiss, attempting to hook a arm around her to halt a pursuit and keep her in place for that newly employed fist. It goes driving towards her middle, knuckles stained with his own fluids jabbing forward several times in a matter of seconds, piledriver pistons working in practiced thrusts. "If you wanted a peice of me.. you can always get up off your aft and try to take it yourself!" he jeered. Sideswipe strikes you with Close encounters for 9 points of damage. you are now at 59 endurance and 0 injury level. Red Devil, Fallen Angel. It's an interesting tableau of personages dancing in the pale moonlight this cycle. The fates must be drunk on witch-wine. She is both overly complicated and so simplistic, it's chaos living. The singular whiff of curiosity slaked, the duality that a knock-down, drag-out is as entertaining as hours upon hours of weaving the very stuff cores are made of. Death and life, each with it's own particular appeal. Rippling, delighted laughter once more rings out, without the overtones of gloom and shadow, just the simple 'this is now - I am pleased' amusement of the moment born on the ride of a lifetime. "Of course I *care*. Why else would I do the things I do?" As claws furrow their path across the visage of her dance partner, another light, airy laugh rings forth admist the whiff-hiss of intakes on full, the rattling hiss-slap of wing-panels clattering against one another. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't make the effort, my dear boy." Optics narrow, widen then get a thready crimson glint. "Already have a piece of you, sweetness. Several. It's not the having, it's the *getting* that's the fun part." Sudden embrace, the closed distance eliciting a skitter of heeled boots, a flare of wings spanning outwards in failed counterweight that only serves to further her unbalance, fingers scrabbling to push the red demon away, break the hold even as the rapid succession of strikes cracks, creases and then shatters more of those ceramic reentry tiles, the repetition bending inwards the underlayers of armoring, a rent seeping inwards to spread jagged edges into her own insides. "Be still, my core, for lo, before me is but an apparition of a mech once thought dead, a dream dead, a dance perverted, a lesson lost in translation." The light seeping out of her voice, words punctuated with pained hissing and the strikes against her middle.From behind comes the acrid stink of ozone amidst a rising crackle of lightning but briefly chained for purpose. Wings span, rise, revealing interior panels aflame with electricity that but simply boils over her, across and through the inbuilt pathways, seeking to bridge the gap that the close, awkward grip has wrought. You strike Sideswipe with Bereft of a soul, lighting is unchained. Sideswipe's moral erupts with each clattering blow, each jingling sound of armorings cast off, crooked smile blooming on his ravaged face. He elates in the nearness, the intamacy. He could swear to primus that at this moment he has her, allows her moments to utter a some unknown sonnet, a hand drawn up to shoulder level, fingers coiling into a hammering fist once more, his arm rocking back once more, "Only the good die young." he answers ready to drive his fist forward once more only then to realize his folly. Crackling light lances out from her and into him, every servo in his body set to to dance to her cast off currents, a thunderous snap that sends him flying away, smoke left in a trail from cooked circuits and burnt solinoids. A heap of metal refuse awaits him, the clamour of a heavy, metal body crashing into a heap of detritus. Metal crumbling and breaking from the impact, some of it his. He lays there, junk tumbling over him, smoke expelled from his mouth in ragged coughs. "Pack a punch.." he observes, remembers, shoving himself off of the heap, staggering on unsteady feet. He seems to crumble down to a knee, one hand punched against the ground to keep him up. That took a good deal out of him.. but not as much as he's letting on. Counting on her predator;s paitience, he unviels one of his own little secrets, the launcher folding out from his back and ratcheting out over his shoulsder, the tupe swiveling and taking aim at her, a charge loaded with a hollow 'chunk' and released with a flash of crimson and a hiss of burning chemicals. "Pucker up!" he calls Sideswipe strikes you with burning love for 11 points of damage. you are now at 52 endurance and 0 injury level. It's the pounding of her own systems shrieking warnings inside her own headspace as counter-melody to the rhythmic punching that has all but mangled her midrift that elicits a wheezing, rising chortle from throat going raspy. The flash-fire of lightning released is in counterpoint to words uttered in reciprocation, "Neither of us are young, dear boy.." And the azure, indigo, now stained velvet pink with slick energon leaking from ruptured leads femme slide-staggers backwards as her once close partner now meets the scrap, as so many have uttered as battle cry in the past. To send to the scrap-yard is an oath, a curse, a promise a lie. Why send someone there when you can meet on even ground instead. It is a perfect place to dance. It is also a perfect place to die, just once more corse for the scavengers to feast upon. Bent over, hands pressed to the pounded indentation, the insult to her armor, she shines emerald gaze at the crimson wonder, spitting out a wealth of fluids from a noisomely choked intake system, smiling with devilish delight, "I do, don't I?" Crooked smile shifting to a scowl, a frown, then the nigh frantic backpedaling at the close ranged insertion of a rocket to the ruckus. She straightens, the gaping hole naught but another pool of darkness, shadowed as the moon above begins its fade over the horizon. Wings span out, boot-jets pop flash, but just that fraction too late, the push upwards only enough to give the forces at play enough room to send her, too reeling into a reeking heap of refuse, heels over head, a clattering shower of leftovers that even the most hard up scavenger has left for rust to take enveloping her in a metallic grip. There is the soft clitter-clack as metal settles, the rasp of intakes wetly sucking in air for futile cooling, the ping of hyper-heated metal attempting to cool. A stirring, an eruption, movement forward once more, hands to the side, fingers interlaced, interlocked as servo-musculature, pinions, pylons, cuffs and hydraulics hold tightly a weapon of a singular making, design, theoretical impossibility, joy, dreams and death. A hop-skip, a leap upwards, then a running step, another, with wings spread wide, panels gleaming with the promise of another eruption, panels full o scintillating rainbows, the bluish hue of plasma, the acrid tang of ozone. But it is the sword at her side, gripped and then arced in an upwards swing, that is worth watching. "Not getting cold feet, are we?" You strike Sideswipe with Song of Sorrow. Sideswipe could have almost claimed his victory, he could nearly taste it. In the eye of his mind he saw himself digging her from the scrap, wrenching free a keepsake, some forget-me-not momento in exchange for all that he has unwillingly given her. As much as such a fantasy appealed to him.. he knew it could only be a fantasy. He took those precious moments allowed him to prepair for the oncoming crecindo. Warily he collected his rifle. lifting it up into his hands and leveling it upon her bed of cast offs. He couldn't just gun her down in the rubbish. Not his style, she deserved better. He waited now, gun drifting slightly at the end of a arm that has grown heavy, unsteady, uncomfortably numb. She doesn't disappoint him, erupting int view like a hellbent angel with a mind for vengence. His smile greets her as she rushes him, his finger squeezing the trigger, the weazpon bucking in his hand, shots going wide. He himself couldn't twell if he was missing on purpose or not, optics marred by static here and there. Her sword sings for him, sings through him, another rent carved across him, ripping over the first in his chest, deeper, longer, crossing out his alliegence. A pained gasp as he staggers, sparks and the rich pink of spent energon seeping from his building collection of wounds. She does not go unanswered however, even as he falters he strikes, "Cold feet?" he echoes, his voice ringing with a spirit that far outstrips the limits of the form it has been bound into. He almost shines, "Sweetness, I run nothing but hot." The rifle thrusts forward, finger gripping the trigger, lights streaking into the read befor his finger releases the trigger, a eruption of azure as light blooms from the barrel of his weapon, a full charge expanded at dangerously close range. You evade Sideswipe's Running hot attack. Vengeance, no. Hatred. Not really. Arrogance? Rarely. The innate desire, the demand of ones self to do the absolute best at the task? Yes. That is what propels the medic-hunter out of the rubbish, sends her dashing towards the source of this cycles pain and hurt. The cheeky commentary, the absolute vigor, the refreshing parley of two honed weapons having a go at one another for bragging rights, really. What a waste, but a thought that will come later, when pain is being nursed away, missteps recounted, misery unloaded. The flurry of steps that draw the indigo one towards the crimson are erratic enough in rhythm, nature that the shots do go wide. Perhaps purposefully or from exhaustion, still, it is fire and fire is not friendly. That tight grip on the sword named sorrow doesn't slip an iota as she sends it swinging upwards, singing it's way through armoring, carving a path for itself, bringing forth the rich, viscous fluids of life itself. Hands now overhead, close quarters, time hardly seems to slow but at the same, it one more, memory will show, grows halting, flash-like, languid and slow. That staccato flicker, a grainy merging of afterimages and shadows, illuminated by will o' wisps dancing from wings, that shattered shoulder pauldron, seeping from midrift. A sharp sound of metal grating against metal, hands overhead, tip of sword held high, a-glitter with the gifts of the battle for but a moment before they are burned away in incandescent light, the process of the solid matter converting to energy subliming the leftovers of the weapons path. A twisting sidestep, a wing snapping out then in, counterpoint, smile flashing, "Dearest, let me show you hot." Back and downswing of the now energy blade, arcing downwards, sideways back again at the crimson devil. Sideswipe evades your Memory of Flame attack. The weapon bucks in his hand, light cast up and into the sky, shot gone wide, errent. There's no time for another, she is upon him and she will not be made to wait. The sword is cast high overhead for a smiting blow, the gleaming blade promising unplesentries. The sword comes down, the rifle raises to meet it. Sideswipe quickly pushes the rifle up in a guard against the blade, the weapon barred against her own, held steady by the crymson dynamo's remaining strength. The rifle has paid the price, the blade nearly cleaving it in two, sacrificed for a few more moments of precious struggle. Sideswipe beams a smile past the blade to the indigo warrioress, eyes bright and gleaming despite his haggered appearence, inspite of it all. "Dearest?" he questions laughing as he strains to keep the blade at bay, "Going sweet on me?" he jokes even as he digs in, pushing forward, attempting to use his bulk against her grace and fluidity, thrusters burning to life once more, sending him forwerd in a rush as he tries to driver her befor him, sending the pair crashing towards if not into another obstruction. Sideswipe strikes you with ram for 9 points of damage. you are now at 49 endurance and 0 injury level. A hiss, the sharp intake of dismay at a strike gone wrong, that flash of amusement and laughter cracking like a cheap veneer, showing the weariness beneath. A moment in time to be remembered later. Her blade slides through, yet not true to her aim, grip slipping enough that the cut through the barrel triggers the phase sequence, returning it to simple composite metal, made heavy by the burden of most of a rifle adorning it's edge. "Going sweet on you?" Velvet tones give way t a rasp'd whisper, sand on silk, scraping and hoarse. "I think no-" Commentary cut short, in its place a wide-optic'd wordless 'chuff' air knocked out of intakes by force meets unmoving object, sending her backwards, down, compressed, crushed into a heap of leftover scrap. A faint, wan flicker of light, pale, weak in it's sickly appearance. Optics now more gold than green narrow to slits, smile a grimace, a rictus smirk, pain written on her face for the world to read. "Give a girl a hand, would ya?" Extending one, reaching out with talons sheathed, blades covered. But what trickery is up that proverbial sleeve as fingers span wide, a fresh warning flash of ozone the precursor to another eruption that begins at a crumpled wingtip, joins forces with another and another, a chain of energy writhing until it dances across fingers and spins outwards in plasmic glory. You strike Sideswipe with Give a girl a hand and she'll take everything. A rocket propeled rush drove crimson and indigo across the detritus strewn field and into a mound. She suffered more then he but the jarring halt still rattled the worn devil. He slumped away, reeling back on shakey legs, hands empty, his rifle lodged at the edge of a blade. She speaks, a faux-plea for gentlemenly aid, he laughs, a single barked noter of mirth as he lurches forward, "Got two for ya, Sweetness." he replies, fists balled and readied for a last ditch act of pummeling. Her trick trumps his however, the foll looking up, watching the light slither around her, coiling up into her hand befor striking out at him. "Aw slag.." Sideswipe is sent flying by the eruption of light, sent flying away head over heels, spinning through the air for a few sweet moments of whirling chaos. The landing is unkind, dashing him against the haggered surface as he tumbles to a halt, bent, battered. His optics flicker, unconciousness calling, stasis welcoming him, urging him into a sweet protective coma. He refuses, pushing it aside, fingers dragging across the ground, curling into fists. He presses his knuckles to the rusted earth of Cybertron, battling back up even if only to his knees. Mama Lambor didn't raise no quitter. Groaning, he shakes away the static, silences the warnings screamed into his conciousness, a self-dealt knock to his battered helm quieting the voices down. "Gotchya something, Sweety." he grates as he reaches back behind a shoulder, forcing the launcher back into place, the weapon refusing it's commands. "Big and shiny.. hope you like it." he utters with his broken smile, a targeting reticle settling uneasily over here.. The missile erupts from it's tupe, whistling out towards her and the throne that is her junk pile. You evade Sideswipe's Parting Gifts attack. Faux plea? No, her words here literal, but the devil may never know that. The energy push from damaged, worn systems seems to exhaust the angel, a moment taken to daw in great gasping draughts of air, venting wisps of coolant outwards like thin fog seeping from subspace. "Really? I can have two hands from you? How.. delightful." Back again, if raspy, the velvet and silk the light, the laughter, the sunshine and roses. She pushes herself up with a hand, one wing sporting panels bent in ways their maker never intended, the other missing a flight panel. Yet still, she slowly gets to her feet, head shaking like a canid dislodging fleas, or her trying to rid herself of that irritating static in her audios. "I'll have to take you up on.. that." Smile, like a clown stealing candy from kids, spreads across her face, the delight kindling the emerald in her optics to spinning motes of visible glee, unholy, unclean. An inital aborted pop-hiss of boot thrusters before she makes the kick upwards, flipping heels over head, the incoming gift underneath the broken spanse of wings, away, alone, untouching. A landing, rough, a stagger and she spins, kicking out high, low then middle, rapid succession, "I'll get those from you when we're done, boy." You strike Sideswipe with Eeny meeny miny mo, where oh where is the foot to go. Sideswipe falls to the ground unconscious. Sideswipe Whenever a Autobot commander thinks about trouble, one soldier may spring to mind.. This is that soldier right befor your very eyes, optics, or visual cluster. This is Sideswipe. Weighing in at a good couple of tons and standing at a stout thirty feet of height, this warrior is a familier sight to most mechs even more so to some femmes. He carries about him a sense of trouble be it the causing or the finding of said thing is never really clear. The missile strteaks by, rocketing off and exploding in the distance, another pile of junk abused by the pair, trash and uselessness torn asunder and cast skywards with the explosion. Shrapnel comes down around them like hail, clattering, bouncing. A curse lays perched on Sideswipe's lips, too much gambled, all of it lost. Instead a single note of a laugh is grunted, his optics cast skywards as she decends upon him. He would raise, he should try one last punch.. but it is all he can do to lift his head, his form gone numb, drained. The legs strike unopposed, hammering his bulk, his head snapping to the side, a dull thunk sounding as her foot carooms of his helm. The second jambs into a knee, snapping it out at a wrong angle, pulling it's support from beneath him, the next hammers him in the chest as he topples forward, his form crumbling to the dirtied ground of the scrapyard where it lays quite still. Arachnae gets both feet back on the ground, staggering slightly, watching the crimson warrior fall with some amount of utter disbelief. A shake of her head, vents now sending plumes of coolant outwards in vain attempt to bring her core temp out of the red. "Hey, sweetness?' Quizzical tone, like a kid who broke a new toy and isn't sure how. "Boy?" Padding, limping closer, optics narrowing, "Awwwww, I didn't mean to break you.. Slaggit." Chuff of air, wings creaking behind her. "Feh." The slitting of optics as she staggers to collect her sword, returning it to an indention in a wing. Padding back, she eyes the fallen form, then, with a shrug, "Well, you did say I could have them." Delighted smile, forearm blade extending as she bends to collect... the hands she considers hers now. Snicker-snack.